


The Room with Yellow Sunflowers

by Professional_Creeper



Category: Child's Play/Chucky (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Brainwashing, Breastfeeding, Cheating, Child Death, Cuckolding, Dark, Domestic Violence, Drugged Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Forced Relationship, Miscarriage, Misogyny, Murder, Pregnancy, Rape, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7106290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curse of Chucky AU: Charles Lee Ray had never felt such intense love for a woman as he did for Sarah Pierce. All he had to do was be patient, and get her husband out of the way, and she would love him back. She would belong to him. They would be a family... a perfect, happy family...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charles; Meet-Cute

**Author's Note:**

> __  
> **TW TW TW TW TW TW TW TW TW TW TW TW TW TW TW TW  
> **  
>  PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE THE CONTENT WARNINGS
> 
> Did you love the flashback sequence in Curse of Chucky, but wish it had been _even more_ disturbing? For those of you who are titillated by abuse, or are just tired of Chucky being portrayed as romantic...

Her hair was a pale yellow beacon in the moonlight, softly pooling around her face, and flowing down her back like a river. It was almost the same shade as the painted yellow sunflowers that decorated her bedroom. He watched her through the darkness. Her eyes were peacefully closed under a fan of silken lashes, a drowsy contented smile played on her pink lips.

_She's an angel_ , he thought.

He stepped into the room, the soles of his shoes silent as a cat's on the carpeted floor. Instinct made him quiet, and cautious in his approach, although he knew he had no reason to be afraid. Sarah would not be waking up, nor would her husband, dead to the world beside her. He had made certain of that.

Charles Lee Ray had strangled, stabbed, and maimed the life from many people in his thirty-odd years on Earth. Stealth and forethought were the keys to making a clean kill and getaway, and everything from his slight frame, to his long dark hair suggested a sinewy grace, and predilection for the shadows. Even crossing the square swath of light that filtered through the curtains and fell over the bed felt too exposed for his taste — yet he would brave any obstacle for _Sarah._

She didn't belong with that pig of a husband, who dragged her to the hellscape of Chicago to live a privileged life atop neighborhoods where people like Charles had to fight like a dog for every scrap. Daniel was the kind of pretty-boy who had everything handed to him on a silver platter, the kind of person who drove Charles green with envy. He had almost killed him the very week Daniel moved in to one of Charles's hunting grounds — but then he laid eyes on Sarah. He loved blondes, and she glowed with a radiance he had never seen. Then it was only a matter of finding a mutual friend to make introductions, and acquiring a potion from “Dr. Death” that would cloud the memory, and induce sleep.

The drugs he had slipped in their wine worked certainly, but slowly. Halfway through dessert, the sickeningly happy couple had begun to yawn, and check the time. He asked, innocently, over his slice of pie, if anything was the matter. Both assured him everything was fine. It had been a busy week, they explained, that was all. Their black-haired toddler,Barbie, was away at a sleepover, and they finally had a chance to catch up on their rest. They didn't have the energy to host. Daniel told him bluntly that he'd better go. Sarah apologized for cutting the evening so short, an effervescent laugh lighting her face as she blushed at her lack of endurance to stay up later. His perfect Sarah, she was always so kind.

_Did she know?_ He wondered. _Was she in a hurry for bed because she knew what he had planned, like a child eager for Santa on Christmas?_

He crawled onto the bed with her, shoving her husband's limp body roughly aside. It flopped onto its face, smothering itself in a pillow. The thought that it might suffocate accidentally, before the planned time, made Charles laugh under his breath, mouth hanging open like a panting jackal.That would be hilarious, but that was not what he was there for. Everything had already been calculated for tonight.

He threw the sheets off her with a rough flourish, exposing the white gossamer gown that ended teasingly just below her panties. His eyes consumed her every curve, every rise and fall of her body with the hunger of a wolf. Sarah, perfect Sarah, possessed the consideration to change into alluring lingerie for him, before succumbing to a deeper-than-natural sleep. _Of course, my angel. You knew I was coming, didn't you? You wanted to be ready._ It proved to Charles once again that the filth snoring throatily into a pillow, who had let himself drop fully clothed,only sullied her bed. Daniel did not deserve her.

Charles stroked her cheek, feeling the warmth of her blood surging beneath the rosy skin, and gently kissed her eyelids. He needed her. He had waited so long, starving in the shadows alone, and now he would finally take what was his. He would have everything he wanted. She would be _his_ wife.

Her lace panties tore like tissue paper. He picked up a heavy thigh and spread it apart, then the other, until she was spread open before him, exposed and inviting. Her mouth still curved gently into the same slumbering smile. He unzipped his pants, and withdrew his swelling member. He stroked it a few times to bring it to its fullest, and without ceremony, plunged into her depths. He let out an ecstatic gasp, and thrust again, and again, harder as she moistened around him.

_Your raw pussy feels incredible — it's so tight._ He moaned, struggling to restrain his volume so the neighbors wouldn't hear. _Tiffany… Tiff never lets me ride her bareback, God! It's so much better without a rubber, I can feel everything… I can't control myself._

Greedy for more, he clawed at her gown, pulling and shredding the delicate fabric until her breasts spilled out into the moonlight, quivering with each stroke he took. _What a rack!_ His pupils dilated until they seemed two black abysses. _Oh, my angel, you're so beautiful._ He wet his lips with his tongue and lowered himself to suckle, tracing a tongue around each hardening peak, then sucking, lightly at first, and then harder. He tried to suck her whole breast into his mouth, until red bruises and bite marks ringed her nipples, and he tasted iron.

He grasped her hips so ravenously as he pulled them up to meet his, clashing against his penetration, that his fingernails cut into her skin. _I can't help myself, it feels too good… I'm gonna come,_ he thought. _You want me to come inside you, don't you, slut? I can see you smiling. I'm going to take you away from this nightmare. Once you have my baby, I'll get rid of your husband. We're going to be a family, now. This is what you wanted._ His whimpers and grunts grew in volume, even as he bit his lip to hold them in. _I can't control it… I'm coming!_

A scream exploded from his throat as he threw his head to the sky, forgetting his instinct to be silent in his climax. He laughed and sobbed in unbridled pleasure, plunging into her deeper and deeper, while feverishly hanging onto her hips, using her body like a rag doll until her hot blood trickled down over his fingertips, and his seed was spent inside of her. _You belong to me now, you understand?_ He panted in exhaustion, as sweat beaded across his brow, matting his brown hair. Her expression remained frozen in blissful unawareness. _You smiled the whole time. You really love me, don't you? I didn't force you, remember that. You love me. Don't worry, my sweet angel. I'll be back for you. I'll never leave you alone again._

 

*****

  
  
As the weeks went by, her belly grew. He watched from the shadows as she brought Barbie to daycare, as she kissed her husband on the cheek, and he cringed, counting down the days until Daniel's life would be extinguished by his hand.

The voodoo potion had worked _too_ well — not only did the couple forget ever inviting him for dinner, they had forgotten him altogether. That was fine. They had a serious quarrel over the state Sarah was left in the next morning, and with his memory erased from their minds, there was nobody to blame for the bruises but Daniel for getting too rough with his wife.

Charles was certain Sarah still saw him out of the corner of her eye, as if she knew he was there, despite the perfect concealment of his hiding places. _We're connected. You can feel me, you know it's our daughter growing inside you. You know I'm always with you._ He thought he saw her smiling.

More than eight months later, he finally had the chance to meet Sarah again at a barbecue.

“Charles, this is Sarah.”

“Hi, how do you do?” he said, words gravelly and full of hidden meaning. She smiled at him, warm and bright as he remembered, and her soft hand grasped his calloused one. _Remember me?_ His eyes rounded her swollen belly. _You must know I'm the father. You must feel it._

“Oh!” Sarah winced, then laughed. “She's kicking. We're so close to delivery now, every time she kicks I think it must be time.”

Charles knew what her signal meant. _Now,_ Sarah was telling him. _It's time. Don't wait any longer, kill him now. We're about to be a family, you need to get rid of the dead weight._

So he did. Daniel died in a fishing accident four days later. “Poor thing,” they said. “He was never a strong swimmer. Why did he jump into the lake all alone, so late at night?”

“The overconfidence of a young man,” they said.

He watched her in the cemetery, in the rain, dressed in black. He gazed at her across the crowd of mourners, giving her a significant nod. She met his eyes with longing, perfect crocodile tears streaking her face. _That's my clever girl, play the part of the grieving widow._ She quickly looked away, and clutched Barbie to her in fear. _Don't worry, angel. Nobody suspects you, we've been discreet. Nobody knows we're involved. You know how patient I can be. I'll come for you tonight, when there are no prying eyes to get in our way._


	2. Sarah; Falling in Love

She awoke to the cold bite of steel handcuffs digging into her wrists. Her body wore a white gown that was not hers, draped over a belly as round as a beach ball, and she wished, she wished for the first time that it _was_ just a beach ball — some foreign object she could remove. She didn't want this violated shape to be her body anymore.

What had he done to her while she slept? She imagined his covetous hands pulling off her black mourning dress, touching her naked flesh, then dressing her up again in bridal white, as if she were a doll he could shape as he pleased.

 _Please let this be a nightmare,_ she had thought, the first night she opened her eyes to this hell-hole of a basement, shackled to a raised bed in the center of the room — literally put on a pedestal — by a maniac who brought her offerings of her favorite flowers. He told her he killed Daniel with his chest puffed out in pride. _None of this is real._ He said they were in love, co-conspirators from the start, and that it was _his_ baby filling her womb. _He's lying, none of this is real. The police will find me._

At first she thought every word he spoke was a complete delusion, but he knew so much about her — personal things he couldn't have known unless he had been watching her for months. If he had been stalking her all this time… if he had ways into her house… he could have done far more than _touch_ her unconscious body.

Then she remembered that night.

Two months before she realized she was pregnant, Barbie was off at a slumber party with one of her daycare friends. She and Danny must have had too much wine, because they both blacked out. In the morning she was covered in bruises, her undergarments were tattered, and there was a constant aching throb between her legs. She cried, and she yelled, and threatened to leave him, but he claimed he had no memory of what he had done. For the first time in their marriage, he _scared her_. But he said he was so sorry, and meant it. He poured out all the wine in the house, and it never happened again. How could she hold him accountable, she thought, how could she withhold forgiveness when they were _both_ drunk?

Now on the eve of her due date, faced with a madman's declarations of paternity, the events of that night finally made sickening sense. It was never her gentle husband who ravished her in a drunken fit of violence. It was never her husband who scared her, but this monster all along, toying with them from the shadows. The growth of her womb once brought her joy when she believed it was Daniel's. “Nica,” they were going to name the child. What would she call this curse now, when it forced its way out?

If her hands were not bound, she would eviscerate herself before it had the chance.

 

In the distance, tiny feet pattered on the bare concrete floor, echoing off the stone basement walls. She lifted her head and listened, daring to hope she had not imagined it in half-consciousness. They were too light, too unmeasured to be his. _Barbie?_

“Hello? Help!” she called out weakly, praying he was not there. He was a loaded gun with a hair trigger, and he didn't like it when she shouted for help. Bad things happened if she failed to stay in character as his submissive, adoring wife.

“Mommy, mommy!” a high voice chirruped, and the steps grew faster and closer. Barbara, her round-cheeked child, with her blue eyes and Daniel's black hair, toddled into the room. She beamed a toothless grin at all the vases of yellow flowers crowding every surface. “Sun-frawer!”

“Yes, Barbie, that's right, sunflowers. Thank God you're alright… Come here sweetie, did he hurt you? Is he with you? What did he do to you?”

“Uncle Chucky take me daycare yesperday. He still asleepy-head.”

 _He's asleep?_ She stared, urgency growing as an idea hatched in her mind. “Uncle Chucky brought you to daycare? Is he taking you again today? Is it Tuesday?” In her windowless prison, it was impossible to keep track of how many nights had passed. Had it only been one?

Barbie chortled and hiccuped like she was in on a big joke, “Mommy dunno what day is it? 'Course I going.”

Sarah laughed sharply, like a sob. “Okay, okay sweetie, sweetheart, listen to me. Are you listening? I need you to get mommy a pen and paper, can you find that? Quickly! And don't let Ch… Chucky know what you're doing.”

“Why not?”

Her heart pounded in her ears. Any second he could prowl through that door, and she was arguing with a four year old. “Barbara Pierce! Do as I say!”

Her little blue eyes filled up with tears, and she sniffled, “N-no fair! Mommy being mean. I'm telling…”

“No!” she cried, “Please! Please, Barbie, I'm sorry, mommy is sorry, please! Don't tell Chucky, he'll hurt me. Barb, do you understand? He's hurting me.”

“Nuh-uh, he loves you! He told me so. Chucky's nice.”

“Then why did he tie me up?” her voice cracked, and she shook her manacles helplessly. “Please just trust me, sweetie… mommy needs you… needs you to be strong…”

The youth considered the situation deeply, kicking her pigeon-toed legs at the ground. Then she ran from the room, light-up sneakers sparkling red in her wake. Sarah suffocated, a choked sob escaping her lips. Her own daughter would betray her to the man who killed her husband, who kidnapped her, who ra—… She stared through the darkened doorway after Barb, unable to escape the sight of her own distended abdomen looming like the full moon, ever at the base of her vision. She shook the thought away. _It couldn't be true. He didn't… he didn't rape me._ The word sounded like a death knell, even when spoken silently in her thoughts. _This baby can't be his, I would rather die._

Then the pitter-patter of little toddler legs came flying back down the empty corridors, and Barb emerged, alone, clutching a notepad and a pen to her chest. She held them up triumphantly, dutifully lifting on her toes so her mother could reach. Sarah reached, trembling, down toward them. She touched the paper, and it didn't disappear in smoke, nor did it drop from her shaky hand. The pen felt solid — a nice, steel pen that Charles must have taken off of some murdered businessman. She couldn't believe it. There was a chance now, if he would continue playing house, and bringing Barbie to daycare like they were a normal family, that she could send a message. All she had to do was be patient, and mollify the monster's temper by pretending to fall for him. The daycare would realize something was wrong, and then police cruisers would light up the dark, and shoot down Charles Lee Ray like a dog. Awkwardly contorting her arm in its short chain, she scrawled down, “HELP ME,” in shaky letters, followed by a brief description of the situation. She handed it down to Barbie.

“Here, sweetheart, put this in your pocket, okay? Keep it there. Don't tell Chucky, and don't take it out until you get to daycare, promise? It's our secret. When you get to daycare, I want you to show it to —”

His eyes glowed like a demon's in the doorway. The blood drained from her face.

“S-s-sweetheart…” she cloyed, simpering. “You… you're back… I… I missed you.” The scripted words tasted bitter in her throat.

“Why,” he stepped into the room, growling soft as thunder. “Why would you try to destroy our family?” With a few graceful steps he closed the distance to her, and gripped a clump of her hair in his fist.

“N-not in front of Barbie. Please.”

“Don't fucking tell me what to do, lying cunt!” He yanked her head up.

“Of course not, darling,” she winced. “I would never… never tell you what to do. I would never lie to you. I… I love you.”

He dropped her hair and grabbed Barbie's arm, snatching the crumpled note out of her hand. Barbie howled in fear and let herself topple over as he dropped her. “Then what the fuck is this?” He unfolded the paper and read in a sing-song voice, “ _Help me, please, I'm being held against my will..._ ” He crumpled it and tossed it away. As fast as a rolling storm, his demeanor changed, and he looked at her with eyes filled with stark sadness. “Why, Sarah? After everything we've been through, everything we worked for? Why would you betray me?”

“Because,” she snapped at last, breaking character though her voice still trembled, “you killed my husband! You destroyed my family. Go ahead and kill me, I can't stand being your puppet for another second. I'd rather die than be with you!”

For a split second, he froze. Snapped out of his fantasy world by her sudden refusal to play along, he woke into the cold desolation of reality, and did not like what he saw. She watched his eyes cloud over again with renewed fervor.

“No, no, no, no. I know,” he susurrated, “I know what this is…”

“Don't…” Sarah shook her head, weeping. Whatever he was thinking, it creased his face with distilled madness. He stalked close enough to touch her cheek with the back of his hand, gentle and affectionate. She flinched. _Please, oh God, don't… not again. Not while I'm awake. Not with my daughter watching._

His intentions, however, were not erotic. In a flash, his hand flew away from her cheek and was around Barbie's neck — he plucked her up from the floor like a butcher grabbing a hen. The girl's eyes went wide, frantic, and her mouth opened to scream, but no sound could burble from her constricted throat.

Charles lamented through gritted teeth, “This thing is a constant reminder of your old life. Every time you look at it, you see its pig of a father — you remember how he _violated you._ You'll never be happy with me until it's gone.”

The instant she saw the terror in her daughter's eyes, all her bravery died. “No!” she shrieked, “I take it back. I'll do anything you say. You — you can have my body. I can be whoever you want me to be. I'll love you. I do love you! I swear it, I'll be good, I'll be good… Please, just let her go.” Sarah pleaded, but he held firmly onto the child's neck, squeezing the life from her pink, tear-stained face as her little legs with the Velcro light-up shoes kicked the empty air.

“There's a reason lions kill the cubs of the old male when they take over a pride, you know,” he explained calmly. “I have to help you forget the suffering he put you through.”

“Please, I'll forget. You don't have to do this” Sarah begged. “We can be a family, all of us, just let her go. You're killing her!” Her hands tugged at the steel cuffs encircling her wrists.

“You're in no position to ask me for _anything!”_ he roared, whirling on her. Barbie's legs whipped an arc through the air, and her tiny hands tugged impotently at his. “This is your punishment for conspiring against me! I told you, there's a price for hurting me. After everything I've done for us, so that we could be together — so you could finally get away from your husband. When will you trust that I know what's best for you?” He picked up the pen, and to punctuate his point, drove it into Barbie's soft temple.

Blood drops sprayed over Sarah's white bridal gown. Red stains covered the globe of her pregnancy, coloring it as if it were a macabre beach ball after all. She screamed.

 

****

  
  
She awoke to the feeling of a knife cleaving through her gut. As her eyes shot open, she saw her white gown was saturated in sanguine fluid. _Have I been stabbed?_ Sarah wondered, when another contraction hit, twisting her muscles in forceful waves that threatened to rip her open and pull her organs out. Her breath came faster and her heart fluttered. _No, I wasn't stabbed. I know this feeling._

“Push, you can do it, angel.” Charles was squeezing her hand, breathing deeply with her. Her first impulse was to recoil away, but she couldn't remember why. His blue eyes were filled with encouragement, and adoration so genuine it blinded her. _He must be my husband._

She squeezed his hand back, and she pushed.

“I forgive you sweetheart,” he spoke tenderly, stroking her hair while she panted. “I'll give us another chance, for the baby's sake. Let's put this whole mess behind us and be a family, for our daughter.”

 _Our daughter?_ The thought gave her chills, but she barely felt them under the searing pain of labor. _He forgives me?_ Her mind was heavy and confused. She couldn't remember how she got here, and it was impossible to focus on anything besides her pelvis, which felt like it was on fire. Another contraction gripped her, and she yelped, clenching Charles's hand so hard her nails cut him — or at least, his hands were covered in blood. _Whose blood?_ Her white gown was soaked through with red, too. It wasn't lochia, it was from — _No. Don't think about it. Don't_. Her mind threw up a blockade, full of Do Not Enter signs and Police Line tape. _Focus on your baby. Nica, your sweet baby daughter — you're about to meet her for the first time… together with her… with her f-f-father. Shh, that's right, you're a family. Everything is fine. Look at the flowers on the walls, crowding the rafters, lining the bedside. Look at the beautiful flowers… Everything is fine._

After an hour of sweating, and pushing, and Charles wiping off her brow and dotting her face with kisses, finally Nica slid out, red and screaming into his arms. Sarah let out a final, deep, groaning sigh — not of victory, but exhaustion — and laid back on the pillows. She felt nothing but a dull ache between her legs and the familiar nip of iron at her wrist, as much a part of her now as her yellow hair. She thought… _nothing_. As her eyelids fell shut, she dreamed that her body would drift away. She floated through the darkness, up, and away from this dank basement adorned with unwanted gifts. Her memories fell away, one by one, and the peace of oblivion overtook her.

Then, a high, squealing voice brought her back to life. She opened her eyes.

Charles held the pink babe with a father's doting smile, bouncing it in bloody arms as it cooed. He looked down at Sarah with pride. She stared back, unsure what to make of the world, or how to arrange the shattered pieces of her life. She felt a wince of nausea, and something slippery began to push out, following the newborn. _Placenta. You've done this before, remember. You know the drill._ The thought bothered her, so she whisked it away. _How would I know the drill? I don't have any other children._

A flash of red and silver caught her peripheral vision — Charles held up a five-inch blade painted with ominous symbols of a skull, and a snake. Breath caught in her throat, but she had no more fight left in her to cry out. He flicked the knife, snipping through the umbilical cord. Then he lay the infant on her chest. She tried to hold her, but the chains wouldn't let her reach. An involuntary whimper wracked her.

“You wouldn't try to run if I took those handcuffs off, would you? _Would you?_ ” he repeated with more threat.

She shook her head lamely.

“Good. You'd be a rotten mother to run out on your kid's father. A girl needs her dad, you know.” He unlocked the shackles, and her arms flew to her baby, cradling her.

“Nica…” she whispered with a tired smile, and instinctively pulled down her gown to expose milk-swollen breasts.

“ _That's_ what you want to call her? That even a real name? Alright, alright we can keep it, if that's what you want. Anything for you, angel.”

Charles rolled in a crib from another room, and brought in some clean sheets while Nica nursed. Then he crawled under the fresh covers with them, spooning Sarah, and nuzzling into her neck. Her skin crawled at his touch, but she was too tired, shaky, and overwhelmed to protest. He whispered a constant stream of velvety promises, “We're meant to be together, I'll take care of you, I'll protect you, if you love me back I can give you the world…” His warm breath in her ear eroded away the jagged edges of her psyche. Her confusion waned if she just believed him. His closeness wasn't so awful if she gave in to it. He _was_ handsome, with chestnut-colored hair, an angular face, and eyes blue as the ocean. The more his lips nibbled her collarbone, and his thumb circled along her waist, the less she could recall _why_ she wanted to resist in the first place.

 _He kidnapped you, remember? You were handcuffed. He killed your husband,_ a tiny voice of reason shouted from a dark place in the back of her mind. _But… it was for my own good, wasn't it?_ A confident, soothing voice replied, drowning the smaller one out. _My marriage was abusive… I was confused. He rescued me._

She knew something was off about that story, that it had been planted there by someone else, but just beyond the comforting veneer of his honeyed words — just beyond the veil of his touch — was a hollowness too deep to ever come back from. She needed it to be true. It had to be true.

His pale lips found an engorged nipple, and encircled it; she gasped — all other thoughts fell away. She lay paralyzed and dared not ask what he was doing. He pulled her body close to his, his growing erection pressed through his pants and buried itself in her thigh. He stared jealously across her chest at Nica, following her motions. He copied them — inquisitively, at first, exploring the hardened swell with his tongue — then he began to suck in earnest, filling his mouth with her hot milk. _Stop, that isn't natural…_ Her lower lip trembled, powerless.

His wet slurps filled the stale basement air, mingling with Nica's tiny suckling sounds. A grown man was nursing alongside her newborn, and it made her body explode in contradictory sensations — her stomach turned in repulsion, a humiliating warmth coiled and slithered between her legs, and the irrational, unrepentant thought looped in her dizzied mind: _protect him. He's your baby, now._ Her whole body felt light, spinning, pricked by a thousand glowing match heads that tickled instead of burning.

She stroked his long locks of silky hair, and she hummed a lullaby her mother used to sing her to sleep.

 _You have to protect him, even if he did kidnap you. You can't run to the police, they would hurt him. They might lock you up, too, because you didn't fight him. You collaborated with him, didn't you? Charles got rid of Daniel for you… Your husband was weak. He couldn't protect you, but Charles is strong. What happens to Nica if her parents go to prison? That's right… you remember now, don't you? You loved Charles all along. It was only ever Charles…_  
  
“You taste great, you know that?” he announced, smacking his lips. “God, it's dinner and a show!” he tweaked her nipple with a prurient grin. “In fact, babe, it's making me horny.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly. She stared back with hollow blue eyes, not understanding.

“Well, do I have to spell it out for you? You've had enough time to rest, haven't you? Let's put the little button in her crib, she's had plenty. Now it's daddy's turn.”

“Nica…” Sarah murmured weakly, arms stretching out after the baby plucked from her. He placed her down in her crib, some stolen old thing from the side of the road, and tenderly stroked her head.

Then he prowled back to Sarah's bed, fresh sheets already sullied between her legs with bloody discharge. His pants were bulging with an erection that stretched the seams. Her heart dropped as he unzipped his pants and drew it out, full, thick, and eager. She knew there was no refusal, so she lay motionless while he straddled over her, and let herself deaden inside as he penetrated her raw, torn center.

“Oh, that's good,” he purred like he was slipping into a hot bath.

He thrust, and again, harder this time, allowing himself grunts of pleasure with each new assault. It felt like she was being shredded from the inside, and her wall of numbness shuddered and cracked. A shrill whimper reverberated in her throat.

“Not very tight anymore, is it?” he complained, “Here, let's try this…” He lifted one of her legs up and slung it over his shoulder, and re-positioned himself at her opening. The position already stung.

“ _Please, stop…_ ”

“Why the fuck would I stop? Don't you love me? Don't you want to make me happy?”

“Of course I do, darling, but —”

“Then just give me a minute, Jesus. I waited nine months for this!” He pushed into her stretched-taut entrance, and she shrieked, squeezing her eyes shut in agony — he could have been fucking her with his knife as soon as his cock.

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! You're killing the goddamned mood,” he roared, though in his protest he never slowed his pace, shoving his hips against her harder, and harder sadistically.

“It hurts,” she squeaked through her tears, pleading for mercy. He laughed darkly.

“A whole baby just came out of there, how the fuck am _I_ hurting you? It's not even tight. Do you want me to leave you? Is that it?”

“No! You can't leave!” she begged. _If he leaves, you have nothing. If he leaves, you're alone to raise a rapist's spawn. If he leaves you're hollow. You're damaged. You're insane. He can't. He's your baby, your savior, the only thing holding you together. He can't leave!_

“Then you're a selfish cow who expects me to do _everything_ for this family with no,” he thrust, “reward!” he gripped her leg and pulled her to him as he thrust forward. Something tore. She covered her mouth with both hands and bit down on her lip until a metallic tang coated her tongue, but she held in her scream.

Between her fingers she tremulously blubbered, “S-s-sorry. I'll do b-better. I'm fine.”

He nodded his approval. “I'll be done in a minute. Lie still, no more complaining.”

She kept her hands clamped over her face, biting back the pain until he climaxed inside her. Then she shamefully closed her legs, and he brought Nica back to nurse again. He climbed into bed beside her, wrapped his arms snug about her waist, and whispered, “I love you,” into the blonde tresses that flowed down her back, when her body finally succumbed to fatigue.

 

****

  
The next day, Sarah awoke, stiff and sore, to Nica crying in her crib. Her bed was empty beside her. _Where is he?_ Her heart raced. She took a few unsteady steps off of the bed, which she hadn't been allowed to leave unattended in days. Rusty fluid dripped down her leg. The world wobbled and shook. She put out her arms in front of her, and staggered to the door, leaving Nica still wailing in that room, thick with the scent of sunflowers, blood, and sex.

She walked through the doorway into a dim corridor, devoid of flowers, and still found no sign of Charles. She began to panic. _Please, no, you can't be gone. You're all I have._ She was falling off a building with nothing to grab hold of.

A door creaked opened somewhere, and heavy footsteps pounded down a staircase. He appeared, like a god, in his long tweed coat. A scowl covered his face as he saw her. “What are you doing out of bed?” he accused.

She stumbled toward him, fell into his arms and clutched desperately at his coat. His arms circled around her, catching her weight, and the world stopped spiraling. She was safe. “You — you were gone. I was scared. I was so scared. You're all I have. You're all I have. Don't leave me.”

His expression softened. “Oh, angel, is that is? You were worried? I was just… taking out the trash before it started to stink up the place.” He scanned her face for a reaction, and seemed satisfied to find none. “Now, why don't we get you out of these filthy rags and into something gorgeous? You need to look presentable when we go out in public, don't you?”

He cleaned her up, dressed her in a new gown, helped her nurse, fed her, and brought her new flowers for the bedroom. She immersed herself in the reality he created for them. Deep in the back of her mind, something nagged at her, but so long as Charles stayed by her side, she could ignore it. So long as he was beside her everything would be fine. Everything was perfect.


	3. Tiffany; Domestic Bliss

_What the fuck is wrong with her?_ Tiffany fumed, her head peeking through the window of the decrepit Victorian mansion. The scene: a family having breakfast. A vase of sunflowers loomed as the centerpiece on the dining room table, imposing as it was eye-catching. Similar vases haunted every flat surface in the house, as if the brash petals could cloak the smell of unrest in the air. Everything about the house was calculated as a veneer of domesticity, but after a minute of watching, Tiffany was disgusted by the lie of it all.

Around the table gathered a mousy-haired little girl, fidgeting with her pancakes, and an extremely pregnant blonde woman frenetically catering to the final member, a rat by the name of Charles Lee Ray.

_I can't believe I bleached my hair for you, you son of a bitch._

She wasn't sure what was worse, the fact that Charles had been lying to her for years (judging by the size of the child who shared his eyes and narrow features) or the way his other wife skittered about the kitchen to abide his every whim. _She's pregnant, asshole. Help her._

But he didn't help her. Her plastered-on smile was too broad, and didn't reach her eyes. She didn't love him the way Tiffany loved him. She was afraid.

“No. No. No. No. NO! How stupid are you?” Charles shouted, overturning the wooden kitchen chair as he rose from the table and strode toward Sarah, jabbing an accusing finger in her face. “You do this on purpose just to spite me, don't you?”

She flinched, and backed herself against the refrigerator. “I didn't — didn't mean to, I'm sorry! W-what's the matter?”

“Think you can play dumb? The orange juice! You got the kind with pulp. I hate pulp. I work hard for this family, and this bullshit is the thanks I get? My shit-for-brains wife can't even manage to get the right juice?”

“I… I'm sorry. I've been distracted with the baby getting close, and…”

His hand whipped across her face. The child at the table stopped poking at her food and sat rigid, eyes wide. The woman pressed her hand to her stinging cheek, and smiled over Charles's shoulder reassuringly. Charles turned to catch their secret communication, and his daughter quickly buried herself in the task of eating.

He chuckled, expression softening. “I'm sorry, angel. I didn't mean to get rough. We don't want to lose another one, so we?” He caressed the curve of her belly. “I've been good lately, haven't I?” He brought his open hand back to her face, gently this time, moving her hand out of the way so he could touch the reddening skin. A tear slid out under her lids, and she smiled in relief.

“Yes. Yes, you've been very good.”

“It's just that sometimes… I don't think you appreciate me. And I don't know how you could manage to raise two kids on your own, if you can't even remember simple things. So just try harder, alright?” He wiped the tear away with his thumb, and forced his lips against hers. She remained still against the refrigerator as his tongue raided her mouth.

“Now that's more like it,” he purred. “It's been so long, you can't blame me for getting frustrated.” He reached low between her legs, bunching the fabric under her bloated middle. “Can't wait 'til this button comes out and we're open for business again.”

 _Dumbass. I kept telling him it was safe to fuck when I was having the twins, but he was so sure it would traumatize the baby_ , Tiffany remembered. Then a realization broke over her hard, and set her whole body trembling with rage. _No wonder he spent so much time with me the past eight months._

“You ought to pay me back for the crappy breakfast, and for being so patient,” Charles whispered hungrily into Sarah's ear, hand twining up her neck, and through her hair, taking a firm grasp.

“Not… not in front of…” she pleaded weakly.

“Nica, go to your room,” Charles bellowed. She looked up silently from her plate, a shadow of resentment flickering in her dark blue eyes. “ _Now,_ ” he commanded. She grabbed her fork and food and padded upstairs.

He increased his hold on her natural blonde waves, and her knees bent obediently onto the bare kitchen linoleum. Her fingers worked at his pants with rote automation until his erection was free. His other hand grasped the back of her head, and her mouth yielded to receive him. Tiffany ducked under the window sill so she wouldn't have to watch. Her back pressed into the wood siding, and she grasped her knees, bile rising with each grunt and gasp of passion coming through the open pane as he used Sarah's mouth the same way he had used her so many times. When Tiffany did it, it was an act of love, given willingly. He made her believe she was special — but he was just as content with a slave, gurgling and choking on him. _A slit throat is too good for him. That piece of shit is going to beg me to kill him before I'm through._

A retching noise wafted through the window, and a zipper pulled up. Charles sighed shakily, flushed face beading with sweat. “Good job, angel,” he cooed, as if praising a child. “Now clean yourself up. I want you to go to the store and come back with the _right_ juice this time.”

He sauntered away into the living room, and Tiffany couldn't risk following him. It was too exposed, and while she might be able to kill Chucky in a fair fight, the heartless, two-timing monster didn't deserve _fair_. She would stay hidden, and do this on her own terms.

“Hey, Nica! Nica, come down here, kiddo, you've gotta see this,” Charles's voice rang out from the living room. Soft footsteps toddled down the stairs, followed by a sharp shriek that made Tiffany and Sarah flinch as one.

“Don't be scared, pumpkin,” he chided, “Whiskers brought us a present.”

Suddenly, the flash of an orange tabby cat burst into the kitchen, tearing after a small brown streak.

“Daddy, can I save the mouse? Whiskers is hurting it,” Nica pouted, following the cat back into view. It was holding the mangled rodent with its front paws, letting it squirm and kick before batting it roughly into a cabinet. Sarah rubbed her mouth and rose to her feet before the child could notice, but Nica only looked at the animals.

“No, pumpkin, this is the way of the world. Look, she's really got her claws in it, now. Pay attention,” he instructed. He sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled Nica onto his lap. The girl squirmed and clutched her Good Guys doll for comfort, but did as she was told and watched as the cat bit into the mouse's neck, ripping up fur and skin. Chucky watched intently, irises dilating. “The world is shit, baby, and it's all made up of cats and mice. Always be the cat.”

_His other kid even has a Good Guys doll? He said they were a waste of money when Glen and Glenda wanted one. He never spends quality time with them like this._

“Do… do you want me to clean the… blood up?” Sarah tentatively asked.

“Shh,” Chucky hushed her, as if he were engrossed an opera. “Didn't I tell you to go to the store?”

 

*****

 

Tiffany watched her prey down a refrigerated aisle lined with drinks and dairy and frozen dinners.

Well, not _prey_. Not anymore.

 _I must be going soft,_ she thought. When she discovered that strand of wispy blonde hair on Chucky's shirt, too long and the wrong shade to be her own, she vowed to find the home-wrecker and cut her face open. She followed him out of town for two hours, and found Charles playing house with another woman — in a real house, not their crummy apartment — with a child he actually paid attention to.

Like a knife to the gut she realized _she_ was the home-wrecker. _This is his real family, isn't it? Me and the twins are just throwaways to him._

She must have been going soft. Otherwise she'd have strung that woman up from the rafters by her own intestines, and left her as a present for that two-timing bastard, instead of following her to the grocery store and _watching_. Pathetic. There Sarah was, standing by the juice display, pleading with a red-aproned associate.

“For the hundredth time, ma'am, we're out of stock. You came in here this morning looking for pulp-free, and I told you we don't get delivery until tomorrow. That hasn't changed in the two hours you've been gone.”

“This is unacceptable! Please, can't you check the back?”

The associate's polite-yet-weary smile fractured. “There is nothing in the back,” he snapped. “I could check a thousand times. We don't have a secret warehouse where we hide groceries from desperate housewives so we can pull them out on demand. There's no pulp-free juice. Come back tomorrow.” He walked away, and muttered when he was nearly out of earshot, “And God help your poor husband.”

Sarah sank against a refrigerated display and covered her her head in her hands.

This broken woman could hardly be considered a romantic rival. Maybe that was why Tiffany felt pity more than anger. That asshole did a number on her head. _He's been playing us both,_ _sister_ _._

Tiffany kicked out a leg as the associate walked by, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“Hey! Watch where you're going you perv!” she shrieked.

He looked up like he wasn't quite sure what was happening. He hobbled to his feet, and began to protest, when Tiffany cried out again, “No — stay away from me! Don't touch me! Help!”

Nobody had witnessed how the scene began, but half a dozen people were staring now, and the store associate was caught like a deer in the headlights.

“E-excuse me, ma'am,” he help up his hands in surrender. “It was an accident...”

“You know,” Tiffany said softly, “My mother always said you should always treat a pregnant lady like a queen. After all, a man has no idea how hard it is.”

“Right,” he stammered.

“What kind of crummy backwater store doesn't have orange juice? Why don't you check again.”

Wide-eyed with horror, the associate scurried away to the back room. She had a feeling he wouldn't be back, but it didn't matter. Sarah was staring at her in amazement, still leaning against a refrigerator of milk.

“Men. They're impossible to please, aren't they?”

“I… you didn't have to do that…”

“Please, I would have murdered him but there were too many witnesses,” she laughed raucously, drawing out a shy chuckle from Sarah. “Tiffany Valentine. You okay, honey?”

“Sarah. I'm fine. At least, for now. My husband will go crazy if I can't find him the right orange juice.”

“If he was worth the trouble, he'd be out here hunting down whatever crazy food _you_ want. Where does he get off making a pregnant woman do his shopping?”

Sarah looked away despondently.

“You know, my boyfriend hates pulp, too” Tiffany said encouragingly. “There's a Walmart twenty minutes away we could try.”

“My… husband doesn't like for me to be out of the house that long.”

“Sounds like a real piece of work. What's he think you're gonna do, ditch him for another man? Or maybe a woman?” Tiffany added with a wink.

“Excuse me?” Sarah blushed. “I… I don't think —”

“Don't you ever just want to drive away from the cheating bastard and never turn around?”

Sarah's eyes went wide with alarm. “How did you —”

“— Or is that just me?” Tiffany laughed, like she'd been joking all along.

“Oh… it's not just you,” Sarah said.

“Then why do you put up with it? Why do we put up with it? I'm sick of men stomping on my heart. We both deserve better.”

“But you're so…” she glanced up and down Tiffany's leather-and-lace outfit, “…confident. I can't imagine anyone pushing _you_ around.”

“Sometimes you just… convince yourself things are good, you know? I wanted to believe he loved me, so… I believed it. But now I think… I really do want drive away and never see him again. Why don't you come with me? We could be Thelma and Louise. No more buying stupid fucking groceries for some ungrateful jackass. We could just leave town, right now.”

Sarah lifted her blue eyes balefully, considering what Tiffany had offered, nearly allowing herself to hope. Then she snorted, and shook her head. “You're so funny. Thank you, but… this isn't just a _boyfriend_ , he's my husband. I made a commitment. We have children.”

Tiffany's black nails dug into her palms. Her teeth nearly broke with the force of her smile. She nodded mechanically.

“Honestly, I'm such a screw-up,” Sarah moaned. “Sometimes I don't even know why he stays with me. Listen… I know we just met, but it's been so long since I've had someone to talk to. My husband said he was going out for a few hours. Sometimes he doesn't come back for days, he's very erratic. Maybe you could come over for coffee, and we'll… talk about Thelma and Louise.”


	4. Charles; Trouble in Paradise

 

“Sarah, I told you to have dinner on the table by six! Sarah?”

Charles slammed the brittle door of the old Victorian, and stomped into the kitchen, fuming. It was empty. No food on the table, nothing cooking in the oven, or on the stove-top. _She's gonna get what she deserves when I find where she's hiding!_ She knew, even if he wasn't home, to always make enough dinner for him. To always set him a place, in case he was hungry. And he _was_ hungry.

Some asshole at the bar called him a “fag” for his long hair, and Charles expended a lot of energy strangling him with a tie. Bastard had to weigh 300 fucking pounds — the whole ordeal was a workout. He just wanted to come home for a little piece and quiet, and his wife's heavenly cooking.

“Sarah! This your idea of a joke? Hello?”

His heavy boots pounded the stairs, shaking the walls. Nica wasn't in her bedroom. The whole place was bone-quiet. A sense of dread began to seep into his thoughts. _She didn't leave me. She wouldn't._

Finally, he reached the end of the hallway, and pushed open the door to the master bedroom. He breathed a sigh of relief.

A blonde woman sat at the edge of the bed, dressed all in white, gazing placidly out the window. The orange light of the setting sun haloed her frame, and set the yellow sunflowers' petals ablaze on the bedside table.

“Sarah, what are you doing, knucklehead?” he chuckled. It had been a long day. He could let her negligence slide this one time. He crawled onto the bed beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist, and pressing a silent kiss to her neck.

Before he had a chance to react, the woman's hand closed around his on her un-engorged abdomen. A cut of steel bit his wrist, and he was handcuffed to the bed frame. He lashed out snarling, like a trapped animal, but Tiffany leaped away with a triumphant cackle on her black-painted lips.

“Sorry honey-bear, guess again.”

“Where is she?” Charles fumed, “What have you done with my wife?!”

“ _I'm_ your wife, asshole! Like you really give two fucks.”

“WHERE IS SHE, TIFF? You bitch! If you hurt a hair on her head I'll…” he shrieked with inhuman force, “I'll gut you like a fucking pig!”

“Try to say it without spitting,” Tiffany tut-tutted, wagging a finger in his face. “Anyway, what kind of monster do you think I am — killing an innocent woman?” She circled the bed, just out of range of the shackled murderer, and picked up the sunflower gently from its vase. “No,” she began, voice tempered by remorse. “She invited me home for coffee, you know…”

 

*****

 

The door of the mansion swung closed behind Sarah and Tiffany with a dry, wooden snap. A little girl ran down the stairs to meet her mother, then stopped short, skidding in her socks on the wood floor, when she eyed the stranger.

“It's okay, sweetheart. Say hello,” Sarah encouraged.

Tiffany knelt down to the girl's level and held out a hand.

The girl didn't take the hand, but glanced up through her brown curls. “Um, I'm Nica. Who're you?”

“Well, aren't you adorable. You can call me… Auntie Tiff.”

“…kay.”

“Alright, Nica. Why don't you go up and play with your dolls in your room. Aunt Tiffany and I have some grown-up things to discuss.”

“But mom, you just got home, and daddy's gone, and —”

“ _Please?_ ” Sarah pleaded.

Nica pouted, but turned sharply on her heel and bounded up the steps on all fours. Her door clicked shut down the hallway.

“Sweet kid,” Tiff observed.

“I know it's you.” Sarah leveled, eyes cold with apathy.

“What?”

“Did you think I wouldn't notice the perfume you wear is the same kind Charles buys me? And the tattoo is sort of a giveaway.”

Tiffany glanced down at the heart blazoned on her chest with _Chucky_ inscribed above it. “It's a common name?”

Sarah laughed cynically. “Sure.”

“How long did you know?”

“Since the store,” Sarah answered plainly, and began to walk away into the dining room. “I've gotten good at hiding things.”

“No,” Tiffany grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around, “I mean how long did you know you were screwing another woman's man, you hussy! I thought he was playing you like he was playing me, but you _knew_ about me!”

“I knew there would be others… the way he disappears… the lipstick marks he thinks I don't notice. I never asked. He doesn't even know that I know. I… I don't know how he would react. What good would it do to argue?” Sarah shrugged Tiffany's hand off, grabbed a dirty mug out of the sink, and began scrubbing it compulsively. “Still want that coffee?”

“How can you be so spineless?”

“Because he would kill me!” she smashed the mug back into the sink. “Or he would kill our daughter! You don't know what he's capable of.”

“What, murder? I know exactly what he's capable of. I can handle him.”

“How can you be so relaxed about this? When I thought about his other women, I never imagined one would be with him by _choice._ ”

“Yeah well, I didn't know about _you_ or his other kids. I would never have let this charade go on if I did. I can get you out of this shit-hole. Thelma and Louise, remember? Forget the ending, let's just do the part where I help you kill the bastard.”

“You're serious?”

“That rat doesn't deserve to live after treating us like whores. I can protect you. You don't have to be afraid of him. Help me set a trap, and we can be free of that garbage once and for all.”

Sarah leaned over the sink, deep in thought, her heavy, pregnant belly pressing into the counter. She ran her hands over the bulge, and closed her eyes. She reached for the dish rack. Her fingers curled around the handle of a chef's knife, and took a wild sweep outward. Tiffany dodged it easily, but snarled.

“So that's the way you wanna do this?”

“You are years too late for a rescue,” Sarah raved, knife shaking in her clenched hand. “Charles is all I have left! He's a good father. You won't take him from me.”

“You don't even know what you're doing with that thing, sister.” Tiffany's eyes narrowed.

“Yes I do… I'm protecting this family.”

  


*****  
  


“That's a good girl, angel,” Charles awed. “She'd fight for me… Now _that's_ loyalty.”

“You've got a disgusting way of earning loyalty you don't deserve,” Tiffany hissed over the flower in her hand, pulling clumps of petals from it. “That's why _you_ killed her.”

“The fuck are you talking about, Tiff?” Charles asked, panic rising in his voice.

She paraded in Sarah's white dress over to the bedroom closet, cruel emerald eyes watching his face, waiting for a reaction. She swung the closet open, and Sarah's body slid to the floor with a meaty thud. Her throat was cut from ear to ear, gaping open grotesquely as her head lobbed. Her blue eyes were still open, frosted over in death.

“Oh, this is where I left this,” Tiffany mocked, pulling the kitchen knife out of Sarah's back.

“NO!” Charles screamed loud enough to shake dust from the rafters. He tugged at his handcuff. “You killed her!”

“Don't blame me, honey! Little miss homemaker gave me no choice! You're the one who fucked with her brain but didn't teach her to fight. She didn't even love you — you just _broke her_. I loved you! Me! All those years, I really thought you needed me. But none of it mattered — I was never enough. You needed your little… puppet!”

A dull crack came from Chucky's hand, and he winced against the pain that shot down the length his arm. He didn't care about the pain. It was dull against the ache in his heart, the numb fury that overtook him. His thumb bones shattered and ground against each other, and the warm trickle of blood lubricated the metal shackles until his hand could rip free. He roared as he lunged for her.

Tiffany's eyes widened as he took her by surprise, and sent her careening off balance. Her head thunked against the wall, the knife dropped, and his hands pressed into her throat as hard as they could. She tucked her chin down and kneed him hard in the groin at the same time. His broken hand was slippery and didn't have its full strength — he doubled over, and she spun out of his weakened grip.

Vomit pressed the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down. As he gasped for air, he saw the body of his love lying nearly underfoot. A discarded husk. The baby inside her would be dead, too. His baby. His family had been so perfect. So beautiful. Their future would have been long, and happy, and filled with children… at least until he got tired of the responsibility. But that bitch cut it all short.

He wasn't hindered for long.Fueled with rage and agony, he stood tall, and tore after her with murder in his reddening eyes.

Tiffany was gone. So was the knife.

_Shit. Sneaky bitch._

“Come on out and play, honey,” he called, stepping lightly out the bedroom door, glancing either way down the hall. “What's the matter, Tiff? Afraid to face me head-on?” He paused, and listened for the floorboards to creak. _You should be fuckin' scared…_

With a shudder and cacophonous metal-on-metal shriek, the ancient elevator that had been in disuse for years started up. His eyes naturally followed the sound. _No_ , he thought, _It's a diversion. She had time to plan this._ “I know all your tricks, Tiff, I taught them to you!” He whipped around, just in time to take a knife to the shoulder, where his neck would have been.

He couldn't help but smile. She looked beautiful when she was hunting.

Then he grabbed her by the shoulders, and tossed her roughly over the second-story railing to the landing below. Her screaming ceased abruptly with a crash at the bottom. He groaned in annoyance at the knife plunged deep in his left shoulder. His right hand was broken beyond using, and it was an awkward angle to pull it out with his left. He hissed and grit his teeth as he fumbled with it. Finally, with both hands — the still-working fingers of his right hand curling around the haft — he was able to yank it free.

_Sarah._

He ran to the bedroom, and was surprised to find her still laying in the same position — as if she ought to have sat up, or moved to the comfort of the bed. He had seen a hundred dead bodies, but none ever bothered him before. Her skin was cool, and stained with the purple-blue mottling of death, but she wasn't _cold_ yet. When he knelt, and tipped her chin up toward him, she still complied as easily as she had in life.

He placed her hands over her round stomach, and posed her with a flower. “Oh, angel,” he sighed, tears wetting his cheeks. She was still alive a few hours ago. If he had come home sooner, instead of getting into a pointless squabble with a drunk townie, he could have prevented this… Could have at least kept her soul from escaping…

“D-daddy?”

“Pumpkin?” he sniffled. He had assumed Tiff finished the job, but she always was soft when it came to kids.

Nica stood in the doorway, clutching her doll. The switchblade he had given Tiffany for her birthday was pressed against her throat.

“You… asshole…” Tiffany panted. Her hair was askew, and matted on one side with blood. She had abandoned her seven-inch heels for bare feet — her ankle must have been broken. Nica sulked in her grasp.

“Let her go, Tiff. Let's talk like adults, here. Just the two of us.”

“How about you do the talking. Start by telling your little girl that her father is a cheating bastard. Why don't you look her in the eye and tell her what you did to me, and to Glen and Glenda?”

He scoffed, and let out a wicked laugh. “Sure, I'll tell her. You were a _mistake_. Just some stupid bimbo groupie who wanted to fuck the infamous Lakeshore Strangler.”

Tiffany gasped like he had slapped her. She tightened her grip on the knife. “I'll do it, I swear I will. How dare you call me —”

“— You expect me to believe those freaky twins are mine? Red hair, Tiff! Where'd that come from, the fucking mailman?”

“My father had red hair, you piece of shit! I don't sleep around and you know it,” she screamed indignantly.

In her outrage, she lost focus on her hostage. Nica slid a hidden blade out of the doll's denim overalls — a slender, three-inch toothpick — and stabbed Tiffany in the thigh. With reflexes beyond her age, she used the plastic doll to bat Tiffany's knife away, and run behind her father. He put a protective arm around her.

“Little BITCH!” Tiffany cried, suddenly panicked. She was already wounded, and just lost her leverage against a very pissed off serial killer. “Shit.”

“Watch your goddamn mouth in front of my kid!” Charles growled. He turned to Nica and ruffled her hair playfully.

“Are you gonna kill her, daddy?”

“Yeah, I think I will, pumpkin.”

“Hurt her, for mommy.”

“That's my girl,” he grinned. He fixed his ice-blue eyes with deadly aim at the doorway.

“No… honey… sweetheart… Let's talk,” Tiffany begged, limping backward toward the hall. Blood gushed down her leg from the deep puncture.

Charles raised the large kitchen knife high in the air and sprang for his weakened prey with a primal scream. He aimed for her heart, right beside the tattooed heart with his name. Ignoring the fragmented shards of his thumb, he gripped the handle with both hands to put enough force into the blow to penetrate her sternum.

Before the finishing strike could land, Tiffany dropped to the floor. The knife wiffed through empty air.

He saw the blood before he felt it, that was the funny thing. He thought she had gone for another cheap nut-shot, but then he saw a pool of red beneath him. Was Tiffany's leg bleeding that much? It had to be gallons.

No. Tiffany had slid right underneath him, between his damned legs like an acrobat.

She always was a good dancer, he remembered.

They used to go dancing all the time.

Before Sarah.

Before the baby.

Well, Tiffany would go dancing. He would stand back on the side of the floor and watch her, taking notes on who got too close, or too handsy. He'd cut their hands off, later. They would do it together, him and Tiff. She always had the killer's instinct, but her taught her how to hide the bodies.

There was a torrent of blood on the floor, soaking into the old wood like a dry riverbed in a fresh downpour.

It was so dark. Organ blood.

The knife in his hands had somehow found its way to the floor. It lay drowning in a rising sea of red.

His hand instinctively went to his gut. That's when the pain finally became real, searing and crippling, like nausea mixed with a red-hot iron. He collapsed to his knees, and squeezed his hand harder over the wound. It was the only thing keeping his intestines inside, he realized. The corner of his lips twitched up in a crooked smile.

“You… fucking… bitch.”

The cut was good. It was deep, and long. She had used his forward momentum, and thrown herself downward at the same time. It must have run a full six inches up his abdominal cavity. And on a busted ankle, too. Tiffany really was something else. Maybe he should have told her that more often.

At least he could admire the handiwork before he died.

Through the fog, he could almost hear her calling his name. Or was it Sarah calling to him? His head slumped down as he lost feeling in his neck, and all he could see was his own reflection in red. It grew closer, and closer, until his face merged with the sticky-warm mirror image. Sarah was singing, like she sometimes did when she thought he wasn't listening.

His angel was calling.


	5. Nica; Ever After

Nica gripped the tiny dagger so hard her knuckles turned white as bones, yet for all her effort, she couldn't steady the trembling. She glared up at the stranger (mom _never_ had visitors) who called herself “Aunt Tiff” (she didn't have any aunts). Mom told her it was okay, but the stranger killed her, and made Nica hide in a closet. She thought dad would at least avenge her mother, but now Nica was the only one left in the family. Alone with this monster.

She wouldn't cry. That was one thing she had learned. Never cry. Be the hunter, not the prey.

The woman knelt down to her level, and Nica swung the miniature blade in an arc — only to be caught by the wrist.

“That's not a toy for little kids,” the blonde lady lectured, confiscating the weapon. “Your father was… an irresponsible man to give you this.”

Nica swung herself by her suspended wrist, and kicked the woman in the ribs as hard as she could. The woman laughed.

“Oh sweetheart, you remind me of my daughter Glenda. She's almost your age. You would love each other.”

“I'm gonna kill you.”

The lower rim of Tiffany's eyes began to swell with tears, and her lip trembled. “Good. You look so much like him already,” she breathed. “You might want to do some growing up first, young lady. Come for me when you're big enough to finish the job. I'll look forward to seeing you again.”

The woman dropped Nica's wrist, toppling the girl onto her butt, and stood up. She brushed a mat of congealed blood from her hair, and limped away, pausing only to step over the face-down body of Nica's father, and mutter, “Goodbye, Chucky.” Then the slow, pained creaking of the staircase marked her retreat from Nica's home.

Finally, she let herself burst into tears. First, she crawled to her mother's side, but the body was already blue and corpse-like. It wasn't the warm, caring mother she remembered. She was afraid to even hug the putrefied mass to weep over. She picked up her doll, and hugged it to her instead, letting her tears drop into the orange plastic hair.

She dragged it along the floor to where her father lay in a pool of blood. Other than the blood, he could have still been alive, she thought. He didn't look so different from when he had passed out drunk on the floor.

He wheezed.

“Daddy??” she shook him, suddenly hopeful. “Wake up, daddy!”

“Stop… touching me…” he groaned weakly. His head barely turned, dragging his cheek and sopping hair through the crimson puddle. His eyes weren't quite open, and wouldn't quite focus, but they fell over the general area of Nica, and her doll.

“What… is that? Give… give it to me…” he whispered.

Too frightened to argue, Nica placed her favorite toy in her father's limp hand at his side. His lips began to move, slowly at first. The words came out raspy, and so soft they disappeared into the air as he spoke them. Nica had to close her eyes and focus on listening to make any sound out at all — but he _was_ speaking. It was a strange chant full of nonsense words:

_Ade due Damballa…_

  



End file.
